


Let It Go

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 05:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11329095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Alex gets a second chance at some things.





	Let It Go

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

let it go-- by Alicia

Archive/X: 27 July 1998  
Title: let it go--  
Author: Alicia  
Rating: NC-17  
Summary: Alex gets a second chance at some things.  
Pairing: M/K  
Spoilers: Set post-Terma, no later spoilers.  
Please archive at Archive/X, and elsewhere by request.  
Even though I keep hoping, these characters don't belong to me. Many thanks to 1013, CC, DD, NL, and the rest of the gang for bringing them to life.   
Hey! Guess what! This is slash! If you don't like that, go 'way and get over your bad self, and leave it for the rest of us to enjoy.  
I loooove feedback. Please write () and let me know what you think I'm doing right, and wrong.  
Innumerable thanks to CiCi, Te, Nick (no, not that one, unfortunately!), and Doug, for editing assistance that greatly improved my first venture into the land o' smut. Any remaining errors are, of course, my own. Thanks also to all the great slash writers who inspired me to write this. I sincerely tried not to rip off your ideas, and I hope you'll forgive any inadvertent slipups.

* * *

*****  
let it go--  
by Alicia  
3/98  
*****

let it go--the  
smashed word broken  
open vow or  
the oath cracked length  
wise--let it go it  
was sworn to  
            go

let them go--the  
truthful liars and  
the false fair friends  
and the boths and  
neithers--you must let them go they  
were born  
         to go

let all go--the  
big small middling  
tall bigger really  
the biggest and all  
things--let all go  
dear  
    so comes love

\--e.e. cummings

*****

On my way out of St. Petersburg I send a telegram:

We need to talk.  
I didn't kill your father.  
Meet me at the Lee-Fendall House rose garden at 5 on Friday  
and let me explain.  
If you still want to kill me then, be my guest.  
\--Alex

*****

On the British Airways flight from London to D.C., I am uncharacteristically unable to fall asleep. Years of necessity have taught my body to conserve energy whenever it is safe to do so. But apparently tonight my brain has decreed it is more important for me to think than to recharge physically. In the safe cocoon of the 747, I let my mind wander. 

I'd been living in the St. Petersburg flat all winter, hiding from the world as I tried to learn how to live in a body with only one arm. My balance was pretty bad; I'd never had to think about how to move before--and I spent most of my time with a bottle of Stoli so I could try to convince myself I was stumbling from the vodka rather than just plain stumbling.

I almost didn't answer the knock at my door that day. When I made my way to the door and saw the shapeshifter, I thought at first he was there to finish me off. But instead of a bullet between the eyes or a blow that would crush my skull, I felt a gentle touch on the stump of my left arm, a warm pressure, and then blackness. I awoke in bed some hours later, with no sign--I thought--that the alien had been there. I automatically reached for the prosthesis lying on the night table and picked it up before I realized the hand grasping the apparatus was my left. After that I just remember staring at my hand--*my* hand--gaping, laughing, weeping at the miracle that had restored the body I'd known as mine for the first 27-plus years of my life.

I still don't know why, or how, the healer found me. I hardly think my old boss sent him as a retirement gift, though you never know with that scheming SOB--things could just possibly be so screwed up that he wants me on his side again. Or maybe the alien was there on his own time, for an even more inscrutable reason. I imagine I'll find out, someday, but in the meantime I'm not inclined to ask too many questions. Having been given a second chance at a normal life, I'm going after what I truly want.

With both hands.

Looking back at my life so far, I can't say I've done much to be particularly proud of--though I don't blame myself as much as some people would. I was always a limit-tester. From seeing how many teacakes I could swipe before mamochka slapped my hand, to hacking into my college computer system and registering the obnoxious frat guys for early morning sections so I could snicker at them trying to pay attention while their hangovers were still raging. But when the Cancer Man approached me to work for him, I had no idea what I was signing up for. I thought I was so smart. But some things are harder to get out of than a back-trace on an early '80s computer. It didn't take me long to realize that I wasn't so very different after all than the "sheep" I'd always prided myself on manipulating.

They'd told me I was to report in on my new partner's activities. Very gratifying to the ego--to put one over on the ISU's former wunderkind. Oh, that stuff about my being a fan of his at the Academy was utter bullshit. But once I saw him work, up close and personal, and realized just how brilliant and driven the FBI's "Most Unwanted" really was . . . suddenly my little game wasn't so much fun anymore.

Still, I didn't see a whole lot of options. In retrospect, I suppose I should have gone to him, or to Skinner, turned myself in. Yeah, right. They knew me better than that. And you know what else? I bet they even had that unlikely base covered. Those men didn't get where they are today by letting an operation as big as Scully's abduction rest on the shoulders of one green double agent.

So what does it all mean? I did bad things. I tried, when I could, to minimize the harm to innocent people. And whether or not it all would have happened the same way regardless of what I did, we'll never know. It's done, and we all have to deal with it. At least I was able to tip Mulder off at the end so he'd blow my cover and I could get the hell out of Dodge before they gave me another assignment. A lot of shit rain has fallen since then, but at least I haven't felt I was betraying people who trusted me anymore.

Does the good outweigh the bad? Hard to say. I helped Mulder find the truth, or a part of it, in Tunguska, though I doubt he's ready to thank me for it.

I glance at my watch. Another three hours before we're scheduled to land. I indulge in a healthy stretch. Since--depending on just how angry Mulder is--this may be my last flight ever, I splurged on first class, so at least I won't emerge from the plane feeling like a piece of origami.

I rest my head against the tiny window and gaze out at the blackness. I guess my mind has had enough of introspection for one night, because I am asleep within minutes.

*****

Driving the rental car to meet Mulder, I am hit by a wave of nostalgia. D.C. is beautiful in the springtime, and the intermittent showers I encounter on the way into town merely freshen the air. In a different universe, I might still be an FBI agent, going to meet my partner to discuss a case. Or we might already be lovers, meeting for a clandestine assignation . . . .

Or I might have died any of a hundred ways, I remind myself, putting a stop to what was quickly turning into a melodramatic reverie.

I inhale the sight of him when he arrives at the small garden--early, as I had expected. I'm sure he doesn't want to miss the opportunity to make me pay for my crimes. His hair is shorter than it was the last time I saw him. He looks tired, but that's nothing new.

After the stygian depression of my last few months, the euphoria I feel now leaves me flying high--I'm stoned out of my mind on renewed possibilities. I feel I can do anything--and I hope I don't come down too soon, because I'll need all my manic energy to get through to Mulder. Too, I know from experience that the crash after a high like this is devastating, and if I don't succeed it's likely that I won't be around long to enjoy my new arm, even if Mulder doesn't pull the trigger.

Approaching silently until I'm an arm's length away from him, I gently say "Hey, Mulder." There's anger in his eyes when he whirls to face me, but not the fury I had anticipated. Maybe I'll get out of this meeting alive after all.

"Krycek. You rang?" Only half a sneer.

"How are you, Mulder?" As if we were social acquaintances meeting after a short separation, rather than men who'd last seen each other in a Russian forest, fighting--very separately--for our lives. But that's why I'm here, after all. To see whether those men can *become* social acquaintances. And perhaps more than that.

"Why are we here, Krycek?"

"Well, that's an interesting philosophical question, isn't it, Mulder?"

"Don't get smart with me, you son of a bitch." The violence that has always threaded through our relationship is close to the surface.

"Sorry, Mulder. You know how hard it is to pass up a good straight line."

"Yeah, well, why don't you try to explain to me why I should want to laugh with you."

Ah. That's Mulder for you, slicing through the crap to find the one grain of importance in an event. That is exactly why I'm here: in the hope that, against all odds, we might come to know each other well enough to laugh together.

I know I have to reach out, try to explain persuasively enough to get past the defenses he has built throughout his life, and which have been fortified by my own actions in the past.

This kind of emotional intimacy is as foreign to me as it is to him, but it is essential if I want any hope of understanding between us. I steel myself. I'm not a quitter, and I didn't fly here all the way from Russia just to turn and slink away.

"Come on, Krycek. You didn't come here for nothing. What do you want from me?"

I shake my head slightly and bite down hard on the surge of lust that runs through me at his words. Too soon for that.

"I know this is going to be hard for you to believe, but I'm here because I want to make things right between us. That's a tall order, I realize, but something happened a few days ago that gave me the incentive to try."

"And what might that have been?" he snorts. "I should warn you, Krycek; I'm not in a very believing mood right now."

I try not to react to his harsh tone. "What happened to you after you stole that truck in Tunguska?"

"What does that have to do--"

"Just humor me."

"I don't have all night, Krycek. But fine, some peasants living in the woods--the owner of the truck, actually--rescued me. They. . ." He shudders. "I convinced them to help me get to St. Petersburg . . ."

"Anything unusual about those peasants, Mulder?"

I see his throat spasm, as if he's trying to hold back nausea, and I know I'm right.

"They were--an unusual fraternity, wouldn't you say, Mulder? Didn't they want you to join?"

He's looking puzzled now, and I'm happy to see his analytical mind is winning out over his primal urge to beat me bloody.

"You were very lucky, Mulder. That sweet mouth of yours must be even more persuasive than I'd given you credit for."

I wince a little at my loss of control and continue quickly, hoping he won't notice my slip. "I guess I wasn't as convincing. You want to know where I've been the past four months, Mulder? Back in St. Petersburg, learning how to put my clothes on one-handed."

He grimaces at the thought, but his eyes focus on my obviously whole left arm.

"Yeah, Mulder. It's true. Three days ago, I couldn't have shuffled a deck of cards if my life depended on it."

"Why should I believe you? And even if I did, what does it have to do with me?"

I sigh. That's the $64,000 question, isn't it? What *does* the loss and resurrection of my arm have to do with him? Then I laugh as at least one answer occurs to me.

"Well, Mulder, if nothing else, I think I now qualify as an X-File for the second time." I pull up the sleeve of my t-shirt to show him the faint line where my normal skin--lightly tanned and marked here and there with scars from battles long forgotten--ends and pale, unblemished skin begins.

He reaches out to finger the demarcation and I can't suppress a shiver. "Someone walked on my grave," I laugh awkwardly to cover my instant reaction to his touch.

"And if your story is true--what then?"

"I don't know if you can understand, Mulder." This is hard for me. I've lived the past 20-odd years masking my true feelings, saying the expedient thing calculated to achieve the maximum results. But if I want any chance at making this work, I have to overcome that training, at least for a few minutes. "I've been given a second chance. One I never expected."

He is focused on me, face noncommittal. Am I making any impression on him? "I had given up, Mulder. Can you understand what that means? Never before--not even down in that silo--did I ever give up. But this--" I nod in the direction of the shoulder that so recently sported a clumsy plastic prosthesis. "Maybe I'm just too vain. Lots of people live with worse disfigurements, I know. But I couldn't take it. The pitying stares when I'd walk out to buy groceries--well, cigarettes and vodka, mostly. I felt useless . . . clumsy . . . ugly . . . ."

His eyes are still unreadable, but I think I see him relax a fraction.

"And then, for no apparent reason, one of the shapeshifters paid me a visit and I was whole again. I'd been given a new life. And I didn't want it to end the same way the old one had."

"Well, bully for you, Krycek. So what are you doing here? If you want to atone for your sins, I can think of a lot of other places for you to start."

"Atonement. . . ." I sigh. "I hadn't really thought of it that way, Mulder. I can't change the past, and I don't see a reason to punish myself for things I can't change.

"But--" I quickly continue before he can launch into his usual litany of my crimes, "I do want to try to change the things that still can be fixed."

"And just what might those things be, 'Alex'?" The vicious caress of my first name on his lips rakes me like a slap from a jungle cat. "Unless your new arm came with more power than I think, you can't bring my father back."

"You're right about that, Mulder. But if I tell you what really happened the night your father died, maybe he--and you--can rest a little easier."

Before he can reply, the clouds that until now had contented themselves with spitting on us from time to time suddenly open and we're pelted with ever-increasing drops. Mulder grimaces up at the now-leaden sky. "Oh, all right, Krycek. Let's go to my place. If you think you can talk your way out of this one, it's going to take a while, and I don't want to drown before I have a chance to get even with you."

*****

I had hoped for something like this when I chose the meeting place. His apartment is only a few blocks away, so we're there in moments.

*****

"So, talk," he says before the door is even closed behind us.

I can't just launch into this. I need to find a way to reestablish the tentative rapport we had been developing. I glance around the room, seeking something innocuous to comment on.

"Nice fish."

Hazel eyes flicker toward the tank. "Yeah. I think these have lasted more than six months now. A new record."

"They're . . . soothing to look at, aren't they." Yow. That was a scintillating remark if ever I heard one.

"Cheaper than therapy and about as rewarding. Come on, Krycek--what's your story?"

Well, that's probably the best I can hope for. Not exactly an intimate conversation, but better than nothing. So . . . it's showtime.

Although I hope that by the end of this evening our relationship will have changed drastically, for the moment I have to treat this encounter the same way I've always dealt with situations that could leave me broken or dead. Although his gun is holstered at the moment, this man could wound me irreparably. And I can't let him know that--not yet.

So I let the adrenaline pump up in my veins, and I speak the words I pray will somehow penetrate the shell of anger Mulder feels toward me.

"Mulder, I'm not going to try to explain my life to you. Either you accept that I'm a human being just like you, capable of good and bad, or you don't. I'm not going to beg." I hope he can't see the effort it takes me to say those words.

"I didn't kill your father, Mulder. I was there that night, and it's true I'd been sent to threaten him, tell him not to talk to you, but when he saw me he just freaked out. He grabbed my gun and it went off. I don't know whether he meant to do it--I think they were dosing him with the same stuff they gave you, only with all the alcohol it turned inward."

I can see he wants to call me a liar, but my words combined with his own memories leave him silent. I keep talking, trying to buy time for his analytical mind to assimilate what I've said . . . .

"Mulder, if I'd killed your dad, why would I have come here that night? Think about it."

"*If* that's true, Krycek--hypothetically, of course--why didn't you just tell me then?"

Mulder would have made a great professor. He has that biting Socratic tone down cold--all weary contempt and frayed patience. I try to answer without showing how much it hurts.

"As strung out as you were? Think back and tell me you would have listened to anything I said. I could have had the entire Supreme Court standing there, swearing I was telling the truth, and you still wouldn't have believed me."

"But--"

"And Mulder, I was a little on edge that night, too. Your father shot himself almost in my arms. That wasn't how my assignment was supposed to go. I didn't know what to tell my--employers--didn't know whether they or the police were after me; it was, on the whole, Not A Good Day. And then there you were, out of your mind and not exactly giving me a lot of room to collect my thoughts. .. ."

He stands, trembling a little like a wild animal that realizes it's been captured. I can understand that. It can't be easy to learn that your father took his own life, even if he was helped on his way by a probably-unintentional cocktail of drugs and alcohol. But the denial in his eyes is fading quickly, replaced in turn by bewilderment, pain, and grief.

When the grief begins to take on a hint of self-reproach it is time for me to speak again. "You couldn't have done anything to change it," I say gently. "I saw you that night. You're lucky you didn't end up dead right alongside him."

He shakes his head more in bafflement than negation. "I should have . . ."

"I'm sorry, Mulder. But it's the truth. I was watching him for a long time that night, and from the way he was behaving he'd have found a way to do it even if my gun hadn't been handy. Maybe he'd finally had enough of living with his memories."

"Don't talk to me about my father's memories, you . . ." But his attack is halfhearted, almost a reflex.

"I'm not criticizing your dad, Mulder. Of all people, I know how easy it is to get into something it's almost impossible to get out of."

That beautiful face looks wounded, but there is no longer any anger in it. "What about--"

"Mulder," I say, cutting off whatever new argument he was trying to formulate. "Let's not talk about it any more tonight. I'll be in town for a few days . . . ." I don't know what cases he's working on, but I suspect that (as usual) he's been overdoing it. That, combined with what I've told him, has left him mentally and physically exhausted.

He doesn't respond--just stands there staring through me with sightless eyes. He looks like a man on the edge of total collapse.

"Why don't you lie down. You're worn out." I take him by the arm and steer him, unresisting, toward the bedroom.

*****

His bedroom is obviously used primarily--perhaps only--for guests. No clutter of change on the dresser, no stack of books on the night table. But the furniture is good quality; spare yet comfortable.

I seat him on the bed and crouch to remove his shoes and socks. He doesn't help but doesn't object either. I can't keep from stroking the narrow feet slightly as I pull the socks off, knowing this little intimacy might be all I'll ever be allowed. He doesn't react--doesn't seem to notice. I stand and help him out of his suit jacket, turning to lay it neatly over a chair. When I go to loosen his tie, he finally seems to notice my presence. His hand comes up to curve over mine as it rests at his throat. His touch is cool, as if his body is in shock, which I suppose it is.

"Don't go."

I can hardly hear the words, spoken in a hoarse whisper. And I certainly can't believe what I think I hear. My eyes go to his in question.

"Please. I . . . I don't want to be alone right now."

I tell myself that his statement doesn't necessarily mean anything, but I notice a flicker in the depths of his expressive eyes and my heart begins to speed up.

"Whatever you need, Mulder." I try to keep my voice neutral, soothing. He's so vulnerable right now . . . I can't let myself push too hard. "Let's just get you into bed." I pull his tie the rest of the way off, and his hand is still attached to mine. I take a quick breath. I turn away to drape the tie over the doorknob, and break the contact with him. My hand twitches, wanting to return to his touch, but I don't think he notices. I should get his trousers off--he can sleep in his shirt without a problem, but the fine wool of his suit pants would never be the same. I steel myself to do it without focusing on the details. I can't afford to rush this.

I've found Fox Mulder attractive from the moment we met. How could I not? The man's face is that of a tortured visionary, but one oddly blessed with an internal beauty that shines through his smart-mouthed facade and complements his urbane good looks. And then the mouth. No self-denial there.

But although I was always aware of the strong, hard body within Mulder's designer suits, my position as Mulder's junior partner had not allowed me to indulge in a thorough appreciation of his form. Later, I had certainly had occasion to notice Mulder's strength and agility, but being on the receiving end of his boxing skills didn't leave much opportunity to appreciate the finer details of his musculature.

I put my hands to his waistband and slide open the catch, then feel gently for the zipper. The pants are loosely fitted, and I manage to unzip them without intimate contact. "OK, Mulder, just scoot up a little so we can get these off," I mutter. He shifts his hips accommodatingly and as the slacks drop into my hands his erection nudges its way out of his silk boxers. It is beautiful, and I pretend not to notice it. I stand to deal with the trousers, expecting that when I turn back to him he will have covered himself.

I hang up the pants, and the suit jacket as well for good measure, and turn around.

He is sitting exactly where I left him--but his right hand is now gripping his cock. He is looking straight at me. Those eyes. Seething with pain, as ever--but brightened now with inquisitive anticipation.

"Don't go," he says again.

I freeze a moment, just looking at him. "Mulder--" I can't believe I'm standing here, in his bedroom, looking at a half-naked, fully erect Fox Mulder. Who, for some unknown but much appreciated reason, isn't cursing me or using me as a punching bag for a change. I mean, this is what I dreamt of when I set up our little meeting, but I didn't dare hope . . . .

That elegant body of his could distract a saint--and I am definitely not going to be canonized any time soon. But behind the GQ exterior lives a maelstrom of neuroses. I know. It was my job--and my obsession--to know. Those melting eyes beg to be blamed for all the sins of the world. Well, not tonight, Mulder. I'm no saint and you're no savior--not here, not now. We're just two men who have been drawn together by fate, and it's our job to make the most of the opportunity.

My mind is still frozen, but my body knows better than to let an opportunity like this go to waste. I move back to the bed and put my hand to his face. What the hell, the worst he can do is deck me. His gun is in the other room. I look a question into his troubled eyes, and he responds by rubbing his jaw into my hand like a cat. The friction of his chin against my palm ignites a blaze that roars throughout my body. I struggle for control but can't prevent a hiss of desire from escaping my parted lips.

Mulder smells like woodsmoke and starlight. The lush curve of his lower lip shines where he had drawn it into his mouth meditatively. It is a mouth that begs to be caressed, kissed, sucked . . . fucked. The mouth of a voluptuary on the face of an ascetic. An irresistible combination.

The blood rushes from my head and I am dizzy for a moment. But again, my body reacts quickly. Putting my new hand to his other cheek, I lean down and bring my lips to his--slowly, to give him time to avoid the kiss if he chooses. Then I feel the warmth of his mouth on mine and reason flees. I moan slightly as I get my first taste of Fox Mulder. His lips are salty-sweet as a margarita and just as intoxicating. I want to memorize every detail, but before I can fully savor the sensation, his lips part and another wave of pleasure grabs me. Rough-smooth tongue meeting mine, dancing, darting, sending shudders through my entire body. My tongue does its part as well, gently rasping over the soft, slick inside of his lips, his smooth teeth and gums.

Enough blood has returned to my brain that I notice I am rock-hard, my throbbing cock straining against my jeans. My hands move from Mulder's face, down over his shirt-clad chest, to find his erection and caress it gently. I half expect him to pull away from this new intimacy, but instead he leans into my hands, rolling his hips slightly with pleasure.

I kneel before this man who has haunted my dreams for so long. I stroke his cock with my two hands, noticing the difference in sensation between the right, callused and hard, and the left, whose skin is almost as soft as the satiny skin it's stroking. I wonder what the difference feels like to him. I realize with amusement that this left hand has touched his penis more than it has my own.

"What are you laughing at?" he asks with a mixture of mock severity and real insecurity.

"Nothing, Mulder," I reply and take him in my mouth to avoid the need for further explanations.

He is well-built there, as everywhere. It's not the largest dick I've ever sucked, but that's just as well. Beyond a certain point, size is overrated. I like to know when I'm being fucked, but I prefer not to have my body radically altered as a result.

He's perfect, though, and I wonder for a moment which one of us is getting more pleasure out of what my tongue is doing.

While my mouth is busy, I run my hands over his strong feet, up his calves and sleekly-muscled thighs. I move back slightly and slide his boxers down over slim hips, then quickly strip off his shirt and undershirt, exposing the chest about which I've fantasized ever since a meeting by a pool several lifetimes ago.

I bow my head again and nuzzle his erection, trying to absorb as much of his sweet scent as possible. I run my tongue gently over his balls, back to front, savoring the rasp of hair against my tongue and the slightly salty taste of him. He moans softly, and his hands stroke my shoulders, but he doesn't pressure me to move on. And although I'm more excited than I have been in years, I want to prolong this first time, imprinting every inch of his body on my memory.

From his balls my tongue moves to the base of his cock, pressing and stroking the large vein, my teeth gently nipping at the sides of his erection. I move to kiss his hipbones, his thighs, back and forth until both of us are near to bursting. His hands are tangled in my hair, stroking, caressing. I can feel him tremble. Finally I move to lap again at the head of his penis, now slick with his arousal. He shudders violently, and I take the head fully into my mouth, welcoming the bitter taste of him. I swirl my tongue around him, learning the details of his form. Flick gently over the indentation at the base of the crown. Then I can wait no longer, and suck him in as deep as I can. Now he clasps me close, but still gently, showing me what he wants but allowing me to set the pace.

I never would have expected Mulder to be such a gentle lover. Admittedly, our past encounters haven't lent themselves to hearts and flowers, but the control he wields over his passion--and the power of his passion is unquestionable--is remarkable. I guess it shouldn't surprise me, though. So much of his life requires self-control that it's no wonder he is good at it. I'm just touched that he would apply it to this situation.

I glance up and notice Mulder looking at me as if I were an icon in one of my grandmother's churches, beautiful and just a little supernatural. His gaze slides over me like warm honey, sticking where it lands but also dripping lower to coat the rest of my body in sweet, gentle heat.

I need more contact. I rise and, quickly stripping off my t-shirt, push him gently down onto the bed, savoring the feel of his cool, silky skin under my fingertips. I sit next to him and run my hand gently over his waist and hip, my palm tingling at the feel of smooth skin over hard muscles. I lie across his body and lick at his nipples as if to burnish them for display. He cries out and arches into my touch as I tongue and bite the tiny nubs, his erection nudging my stomach as he writhes. We rock together for a few moments or a few hours, and then I feel his hands on my jeans, ripping open the restraining buttons, and I groan as my cock is finally freed. I fling my remaining clothes away without removing my ravenous mouth from his body.

Mulder squeaks when he is excited. The sound is endearing, and surprisingly erotic, sending tongues of fire streaking throughout my body. The man may have the world's most sensitive nipples. I'm tempted to play with them all day, bringing him to a state of insensible need.

When arousal threatens to overwhelm both of us, I move away from his chest, licking his shoulders, neck, stomach, like one cat grooming another. I move down his body to suck on his toes, biting them playfully.

"Ohhhh, Alex . . ."

I raise my head to look at him. "What, Mulder?"

"Nothing--everything--oh, don't stop."

His almost unintelligible pleas spark an irresistible impulse toward mischief. "Don't stop what, Mulder?" I slide back up his legs. "This . . ." I lick swiftly up his cock from balls to tip. "Or this . . ." I worry the head gently between my teeth. "Or this . . ." I give the head a quick suck before dropping to tongue his balls gently. "Or . . ."

"Okay, okay, you can stop asking. Stop talking. Please . . . just don't stop anything else."

I smile into his thighs and continue licking.

Like children exploring a network of caves, we discover each other. Stroking, kissing, sucking, pinching, registering the responses to learn each other's pleasures. Almost by accident, my cheek brushes across the soft-hard flesh of his inner arm. He gasps, and I repeat the caress. He finds the spot inside my upper lip that makes me shudder helplessly and beg for him to stop, never to stop. I've never had this experience before--both of us searching, yearning to find every possible way to pleasure the other--and ourselves therein. In the past, sex has been a game of subtle domination. Learn to please the other so you can keep control of him. But I sense none of that tonight. Just two very unlikely innocents, learning the world that consists of the two of us together.

Somehow our respective needs for power have been left behind at the threshold of our passion, freeing us to play, to submit without submission and to lead without domination, moment by moment as the mood strikes us. We have left the real enemies outside the bedroom and wrestle like puppies, tumbling in a sensual romp.

Mulder is both more and less than I expected. I'm pleasantly surprised at his responsiveness as a lover. No reluctance, no shyness--just good-natured enjoyment of both our bodies. Where is the distrust I had anticipated? It intrigues me to wonder how, why, where he put it aside. I have no doubt it is still around. A trusting Mulder would be an anomaly our universe couldn't withstand. But it isn't in the bedroom with us, and I am not going to waste time puzzling over where it is presently stored.

His strong hands grip my waist, fingers clutching with no small violence, and I know I will bear his marks tomorrow. Despite the fleeting discomfort, I welcome the temporary branding. I want an external reminder of the power of his passion. At least this time the marks will be born of love. Though, in a way, perhaps they always were.

My hands slide easily over his back, down the ripe curves of his ass. Velvety skin seduces my hands. My fingers tremble as they trace the concavities of the sides of his buttocks, then move to gently explore between them. The sensation is so intoxicating I feel I must experience it with all my senses. I brush my face and cheeks over the soft skin, nuzzling his ass. I open my mouth to taste him and am almost overcome with desire. I want to experience every pore of his body. Ass to balls to cock, thighs and hips and stomach. His response is sweet and strong. Even as he's thrashing against me, his hands are working their magic on my own body, and soon we are both beyond ourselves, fingers probing, mouths teasing, until I feel the beginning tremors of his orgasm and let myself fall into space alongside him.

*****

Mulder falls asleep so quickly and thoroughly I worry for a moment, then remember his emotional state of--what, was it three hours ago?--and decide his body is just reacting normally. It doesn't take long before I join him in sleep, snuggled into his warmth.

From time to time, depending on my state of consciousness, I grow aware of the drumming of rain against the window. That rain is my friend tonight, the catalyst for our coming here. The rhythm of the rain blends with the pounding of blood in my ears, and I feel one with the weather, one with the night as I have been so many times in the past. But this time, unlike the others, the oneness is not solitary. I am frightened by how good it feels not to be alone in this night.

Can I do this? For as long as I can remember, a tenet--*the* tenet--of my life has been self-reliance. Mulder and I have always been more alike than either of us cared to admit. "Trust No One"--it's a motto that's saved my life many times. But here I am wondering what my life will be if I can't break my own rule this time. I've always tried to differentiate between trusting my gut and thinking with my dick. Tonight both parts are steering me in the same direction. I hope they're right.

*****

At some point in the night I wake and pad into the kitchen in search of something to drink. Typical bachelor refrigerator--a couple of jars of condiments, some dubious-looking bread. And two six-packs of bottled water. Guess I wouldn't trust the taps, either, if I were him. I grab a bottle and head back to the bedroom. On second thought, I turn again and snag a second. Be prepared.

Mulder looks so peaceful when I return. His face innocent, unscarred. His skin like milk in the moonlight. The planes and curves of his body could have moved Euclid to tears. An amusing image, as Mulder is definitely non-Euclidean. I know I should let him rest, but I can't resist.

I start at his toes, tangled outside the sheets. Licking, gently sucking, working my way slowly upward. He moans once or twice as I lave the bones of his ankles. By the time I reach the backs of his knees he is fully erect and mostly awake. Taking a swig from the chilled water, I move on to his thighs and he jerks sharply at the sudden cold. I put my arms over his legs to hold him in place, then pour a small pool of ice water on his stomach. He yelps, but subsides quickly as my once-again-warm mouth descends on his cock. I alternate between sucking him and licking the water from the hollows of his hips. He is all the food and drink I need this evening.

His sweet, sweet ass is hot and tight as I slip one, then two fingers inside. My cock jumps in sympathetic arousal as I find the spot that makes him groan with pleasure. I've never been so turned on by another man's excitement before. Oh, Mulder, I hope you'll let me show you how special you are.

Later, we sleep again . . . .

*****

I awaken at dawn. Jet lag has never been much of a problem for me, which is a good thing considering. My body is sore from last night's workout, but I have no complaints. Mulder is nestled against my chest. In the faint light, I see him smiling in his sleep. I wonder whether that happens often, wonder whether the smile is for me. The gentle sound of his breathing lulls me, and I drift off once more.

*****

Several hours later, consciousness returns via the dark, seductive scent of coffee infiltrating my mind. I stretch languorously, hearing several put-upon vertebrae snap back into place. The sun is shining and last night's rain seems to have cleared the air in more ways than one. At least, I hope so. The coffee seems like a good sign, I think. Do you brew it fresh before you execute someone?

Well, I'm not exactly armed and dangerous at the moment, so I guess I have nothing to lose by hoping for the best. So where do we go from here? I know my feelings for Fox Mulder run deep. I may be impulsive, but even I wouldn't fly halfway around the world and risk my life just to cultivate a fuck-buddy. But I have no idea what the past night has meant to him. Even without all our interpersonal baggage, I suspect neither of us has much experience with relationships. Not healthy ones, anyway.

I suppose at a minimum I've gotten him to accept that I'm human. Maybe now the rat jokes will stop.

Mulder appears in the doorway, a steaming mug in each hand. "Black?" he says, and I nod appreciatively. Even aside from the very welcome brew (and the even more welcome fact that it comes unaccompanied by any immediate threat of physical harm), Mulder makes an inspiring picture. He apparently pulled on an old pair of sweatpants, obviously shrunk by countless washings, and nothing else. Looking at his sculpted torso and the revealing pants, I feel myself harden.

As he hands me my coffee, I catch his hand and bring it to my mouth, sucking gently on the fingertips. He growls low in his throat and we barely manage to set the mugs down safely before he is pushing me down on the bed where I am assaulted by the sensation of silk-smooth hair tickling my chest and stomach.

I look down to see the top of Mulder's head--a view I could easily get used to. His warm breath drifts over my groin, rousing me to full hardness. I hold my breath. The mouth that has haunted my dreams for so long dips, feints, then after an eternity alights to wreak its sweet torture. I abandon all pretense of control. I learned very quickly last night that Mulder takes no prisoners when he makes love. When he is in charge, as he most certainly is now, he is an artist with infinite patience and a truly wicked imagination. I know it will be a long time before I come, and that every excruciating moment will increase the exquisite pleasure he inflicts on me.

The situation would be daunting were it not for the fact that Mulder can abandon himself to pleasure too. Visions of him impaled on me flicker across my mind. Writhing frantically, his head thrown back, grunting inarticulately, beyond words--and I took him there. The memory of his ecstasy heightens my own already-intense excitement. I'm so close to coming apart in his mouth, but the small fraction of my mind that is not occupied with sensation knows he will not let me--not yet. If I can still think in words, I'm not far enough gone to suit him. Sure enough, his hand is gripping my balls and that blast furnace of a mouth has moved down to nip at my kneecap. Did you know that knees were an erogenous zone? You learn a lot when you spend time with Fox Mulder. I want to scream, beg, cry, anything to get that cocksucking mouth back where it belongs. But I force myself to relax, give in to the process that will ultimately culminate in a climax of epic proportions.

Ah. The Mouth is back. I'm so hard it's almost painful, but I welcome every quiver, every twinge he coaxes from my flesh. Such a giving, such an inventive lover he is.

His maddening hands caress my ass for a while, teasing, before he reaches for the lube and a wave of pleasure breaks over me as I feel the first nudge of a finger at my entrance. He sets up one rhythm after another, slow, hard, fast, gentle, and the pleasure from his fingers entwines with the pleasure from his mouth and the two sensations dance through me in a sensual tango.

I can't keep myself quiet anymore. Moans, whimpers, the occasional word escape from my dry lips. "God . . . oh, fuck--Mulder. You . . . I . . . oh, oh, ohhh . . ."

He raises his head slightly, hands never pausing in their dance, and looks at me like a gourmet chef checking to see if the pastry crust has reached precisely the right shade of brown. Apparently my extremis passes muster, because I feel his mouth on me again, sucking hard and deep, and with a hoarse scream I'm flying, coming apart and together and then consciousness departs altogether.

I am welcomed back to the planet by the cool touch of a damp washcloth tracing gently over my body. I am too weak even to smile, but I manage to fumble for Mulder's hand and bring it to my lips. He tosses the cloth aside and moves to lie next to me, cradling my limp body. "Your turn . . . later, Mulder," I manage to say, before drifting to sleep, his hand in mine. That's so much more than I dared hope for, and I tell myself it will be enough. It must be enough.

After all, I'm on a roll in the miracle department this week.

*****

End


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